


There's No Place Like Home

by newisalwaysbetter



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: Canon-Typical Injuries, Christmas Isn't Canon, Crying, Cuddling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Feelings, Flynn takes care of his team, Found Family, Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attacks, Team whump, Whump, a hilarious tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-11
Updated: 2019-04-11
Packaged: 2020-01-11 18:45:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18429926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newisalwaysbetter/pseuds/newisalwaysbetter
Summary: When Rittenhouse attacks, they barely make it out, this time. And Flynn is so busy patching Wyatt's wounds and making Lucy lie down and watching for attackers that he can't even think about the fact that they're taking refuge in the house where his family died.(After a request for "Caretakers helping their injured friends, and then just breaking down during a quiet moment" for garcy. Angsty garcy whump with comfort and cuddling, set post-S2.)





	There's No Place Like Home

**Author's Note:**

> Set post-S2; warnings for blood, injury, panic attacks, cursing, and mentions of guns, knives, death and violence.
> 
> This is a prompt fill; if you like this, come send me fic requests at to-hell-with-oblivion on tumblr! :)

They barely make it out, this time.

Rittenhouse hits their new safehouse before they have the chance to settle into it. There are bullets flying and Emma with a knife as long as her forearm ( _jesus_ ) _,_ and Flynn barely has time to scoop up Jiya and toss her bodily into the  _Lifeboat_ with instructions on where to meet them after she hides it. The shockwave produced by the timemachine departing knocks them all flat, but also stuns the Rittenhouse agents long enough for the team to sprint out the back door.

They run far and fast, not caring where so long as it’s  _away._  The summer night closes like a hood over their heads, and in the darkness they cling to each other’s bodies, breathing hard. Wyatt leans on Flynn for support, having taken a bullet to the leg, and together they limp along in front of the others. Each holds a gun in their free hand.

Connor and Lucy toddle along behind them, lugging the bags they hadn’t found time to unpack, and both swaying in a way none of them likes. A thin stream of blood trickles from Lucy’s temple where she’d taken a hit. Rufus and Denise bring up the rear, both armed, but Rufus is limping to favor the still-raw stitches in his side and Denise keeps shooting him concerned looks.

After Connor attempts to walk into a tree, they pause for breath in a wooded copse. Wyatt and Lucy dizzily help each other fall against a stump while Wyatt gasps in pain, and Rufus, wide-eyed with alarm, guides an absent Connor to a sitting position on the ground. Flynn looks around at the shattered team and runs a hand through his hair, throat closing up.

“Flynn.” Denise is there next to him suddenly, her firm voice breaking through the fog of panic. “We can’t stay here.” 

_Right._  The two of them are, for all intents and purposes, the adults here. And also, by the looks of it, the only two left uninjured by the attack. He tries to focus.

“I have another safehouse in mind.” Denise’s searching gaze betrays concern. “But I have to go alone to make sure it’s not compromised. Can I trust you to protect the team? To get them somewhere safe?”

Flynn swallows hard. He hasn’t wanted to admit it, but he recognizes this place all too well. Between the trees, an achingly familiar street sign reveals itself. He nods. It’s a bad one, but– “I have an idea.”

As he expects, the little house on the hill remains abandoned after all this time. Three years’ neglect means that the  _Condemned_  sign in the yard hangs rusty off one hinge, and the boards over the door are rotted enough that they can break in with minimal noise. Inside, all the furniture and accoutrements of life are long gone, leaving only dust and the empty bottles of former squatters. It should make Flynn angry to see his former home treated this way, but instead there’s simply a horrible nothingness, which is almost worse than the crushing ache of loss. 

Fortunately, all thoughts and feelings are necessarily put aside when the needs of the team assert themselves. Wyatt is delirious from blood loss, so someone has to hold him down while Rufus digs the bullet out of his leg and sews him up. And if Wyatt issues strangled screams and begs them to stop and fights when Flynn tries to hold him up and coax him into drinking water, well, Flynn knows how to put all that aside. 

Afterwards, someone has to check Rufus’s stitches, to order Lucy to  _stop trying to help and just lie down, you’re concussed,_  and to watch the windows for attackers while Rufus waves a hand in front of Connor’s face. It’s only when he hears Jiya murmur, “ _My god,_ ” that Flynn surfaces into cogent thought again.

Jiya stands in the doorway, gazing at the team’s scattered bodies with unconcealed dismay. Flynn guards one window, and next to him, Lucy sits against the wall with her head between her knees and her eyes screwed shut. One hand, bony and trembling, fists in the hem of Flynn’s pant leg. Wyatt is audibly whimpering, and has crawled under a card table across the room. Connor sits in the center of the floor, delivering a half-gibberish lecture to no one in particular while his voice rises and falls. And Rufus stands at the other window with a gun, leaning on the sill and gasping wet breaths through the pain in his side.

Jiya goes to Rufus first, which gives Flynn the chance to circle the perimeter checking every window, to pour more water down Wyatt’s throat, to drag Connor out of view of the windows, to coax Lucy into lying down, to brush off Jiya’s concerns for him, to check the windows again, to soothe Wyatt’s whimpers, to distract Connor with a granola bar, to brush off Jiya again and instruct her to  _make Rufus sit down and stop pulling on his damn stitches,_  to feed Lucy a painkiller, to check the windows again, to reload the guns and zip up the bags, to check the windows, to tell Jiya he’s  _fine,_  to check the  _hall,_  to snap at Wyatt to  _shut up,_  to check the windows for the agents that threaten his family now, to check the hall for the agents that threatened his family then, to slow his racing heart, to check the hall again, the hall down which they came, the hall down which the Rittenhouse agents came the night they killed his family last time–

“ _Flynn,_ ” Denise’s says, and he spins from the window with a snarl–he’s trying to keep them safe,  _dammit,_  doesn’t she understand–but Denise’s sharp gaze breaks off the words in his throat. Her voice is commanding. “You need a break.” Flynn wants to protest, but she points to the hall. “No. Time-out. Five minutes, now.”

He storms into the hallway, stuffs his pistol in his belt, and leans against the wall with a huff. Several long moments pass. Flynn’s heartbeat slows. The night closes in around him. He draws a shuddering breath. Then another, then another, then a brutal sob crawls up his throat and emerges in a stifled wail. Flynn covers his mouth with his hand as the tears finally come.

He sinks down the wall, trembling. He’d almost lost them. He’d almost lost them, and even how, they’re not safe. Wyatt is bleeding out and Connor is cracking up and Lucy can’t stand upright and it’s not enough; he’s never enough. He’s lost one family and he’s almost lost another. 

Flynn doesn’t even notice that Lucy has crawled around the corner until she curls up against him.

“This was your house,” she says, and her voice is raw. “Wasn’t it?”

Flynn croaks. “This is where I lost them. Yes.” He draws a rattling breath and turns to cup her face. Lucy’s gaze is clear, but her eyes aren’t tracking properly, and that sends a fresh bolt of adrenaline through him. “I should never have let them near you,” he whispers fiercely. “I let them  _hit_  you. I let them  _hurt_  you, Lucy.”

“You kept the  _Lifeboat_  out of Rittenhouse’s hands.” Lucy traces his fingers with hers. “That’s…the best we can hope for.”

“ _I_  believe we can hope for more.” Flynn enfolds her hand in his larger, battle-worn one, and brings her knuckles to his lips. “I won’t lose you, Lucy.” His gaze drifts meaningfully to the room beyond. “I won’t lose  _anyone._ ”

Lucy’s eyes go sad and soft, but before she can respond, Denise calls from the main room, “Time to go.” Flynn and Lucy share a look. It’s so hard, this. In more ways than one, they’re living in the spaces of the dead.

When they try to stand, Lucy moans and stumbles, holding a hand to her head, and although there are simpler ways, Flynn takes the opportunity to scoop her into his arms and cuddle her close. Face taut with hope, Lucy wraps her arms around his neck. They need to feel their warmth against each other. Lucy’s fingers find the pulse point of his neck, and Flynn’s heart beats against hers. They’re only passing through here; he won’t let them remain.

Lucy points to the open door, and at her direction, Flynn carries her through the doorway, out of the house of the dead, and into the gathering light.


End file.
